


The Soldier's Return

by TheConsultingAviatrix



Series: Mamihlapinatapai [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Case Fic, Fluff, Gen, Hostage Situations, Johnlock buildup?, Kidnapping, Mind Palace, Mycroft goofs, OCs only matter to the case, Sherlock Being Sherlock, season 4-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-09 05:45:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1971180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheConsultingAviatrix/pseuds/TheConsultingAviatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock shoots CAM, life goes on while a verdict is reached- well, life goes on for everyone else, mostly.  Sherlock's forbidden to take on any cases (or leave the flat, but that's more of a suggestion, right?) which means mind-shattering boredom.  John's dealing with Mary being... well... Mary (or AGRA?  What even?) and Sherlock being... well, Sherlock.  So when John and Sherlock encounter a body that John recognizes, it's a bit of a relief (well, not really, of course.  In some ways maybe. Just a tad).  Things get a little out of hand though, and John's left to solve the case while Sherlock discovers that John Watson, no matter the odds or opposition, will ALWAYS save the life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not a Case

**Author's Note:**

> My very first fanfic on AO3 as well as my first Sherlock fic. Please be gentle :)
> 
> Not beta-ed or Britpicked, so any mistakes are mine and would be much appreciated if pointed out. Also please note that I'm aware many of the sentences end up running on a bit, but this is how I imagine Sherlock thinking. It gets easier in the John POV chapters, so hang on! This does not reflect my personal opinions, so no angry shippers or meta-writers please. :)
> 
> This is kind of my season 4 ideas (not the case, more the issues) so enjoy!

London was lovely from seven stories up.  It was close enough to still enjoy the grime and workings of the city without having to deal with the constant noise of countless subconscious deductions and the inane chatter of those too busy being boring to slow down.  Of course, Sherlock still noticed things, like the man with the toupee who was probably a banker (and a very important one at that, given that several people seemed to be tailing him.  Agents of some sort?  Interesting.) and the woman who had just been fired from the shop across the street.  The only thing missing was explosions.

If anything marred this moment, it was the fact that Sherlock was enjoying the view courtesy of the burglar (about 1.9 meters, 110 kilograms, owned two cats, exercised religiously, leaning slightly to the left) who was currently mashing Sherlock's face into the concrete of the roof while choking him with his own scarf (no matter what John said, the scarf was an asset, not a hindrance, despite the fact it became something of a noose on numerous occasions).  John was somewhere behind them, further away from the edge of the library's roof, battling a second thief.  A third had disappeared, which bothered Sherlock marginally, but he put that aside for the moment.

Aware that he was losing oxygen rapidly (the black spots in his vision were especially worrisome), Sherlock jerked to the left.  The burglar's greater weight kept him pinned down for the most part, but given that the bigger man had been leaning left already, he was unbalanced enough that Sherlock could get some leeway.

Jerking violently to the right (and further unbalancing his opponent, and further proving his theory that the man preferred exercises that improved brute force, and spent little time on things that would enhance balance) Sherlock gasped for air, sucking oxygen into his lungs and pumping carbon dioxide out.  He scrabbled at the roof, pulling himself further away from the brute and then gracelessly hauled himself to his feet.

The burglar he had apparently managed to knock down was getting up, baring his teeth slightly in an unconscious show of a threat while attempting to prove himself dominant.  Simple, primal.  Sherlock guessed he had a couple seconds and he looked around.

John was still grappling with the second thief, and he had the man's arm twisted behind his back.  Despite his opponent's slightly greater size, John was clearly enjoying the upper hand.  He had the half smile on his face that betrayed his cool and collected demeanor.  John was a soldier, yes, but he was a soldier because he was an adrenaline junkie first and foremost.  Granted, it was easier enjoying that indulgence in London, with rooftop chases and petty criminals, rather than in a hostile desert watching friends being torn apart by IEDs.

And then Sherlock was wondering why he was suddenly feeling like his face was being torn apart.  _My burglar.  Punch to the jaw, knocked me down._ It wasn't like Sherlock to get distracted, to forget the issues he placed on the back-burner.  Gritting his teeth, he kicked out at his opponent's knees, hoping either to hurt the man or provide some friction to propel himself away.

Enduring a kick to the shin with little more than a grimace, the burglar was reaching down for Sherlock.  The detective tried to knee the man in the head, but it was sloppy and then meaty hands were grabbing his coat, yanking him off the roof-

"Put.  Him.  Down."

Both Sherlock and the burglar turned their heads to see John, hands in his pocket and glaring at the man holding Sherlock's coat lapels.  The second burglar lay sprawled on the roof, apparently unconscious.  The third had yet to return, and Sherlock was now almost positive that the third thief had simply cut loose and run.   There was a 33.33% chance that he had taken the stolen books with him.

The three men stood still, nothing but the sound of sirens off somewhere to break the tension.

"Jus' lemme go, alright?" the burglar shifted, so that Sherlock was in between him and John.  _Human shield, how original._ "I got a knife, okay?"

It was more of a switchblade, honestly.  But either way, Sherlock soon felt it pressing into his side ( _Idiot.  If he stabs me in the side there's a chance I'll live and he'll still get caught.  Unless he knows something about anatomy and can pierce an organ, but I doubt that since he dropped out of secondary school.)_

John took a small step back and Sherlock felt a brief moment of fear.  But even after everything, no matter how strained their relationship... John would always come through.  Even if Sherlock didn't deserve it.

The criminal began to shuffle, clearing a wide arc around John as he dragged Sherlock towards the fire escape on the other side of the roof.  _(Even if John didn't have a plan, how would he plan on getting a hostage down a fire escape?  Honestly...)_

Of course, Sherlock had been a bit spoiled with cases as of late.  Before John it was all break-ins an murders and once in a blue moon, a wonderful, thoughtful serial killer.  Sherlock wasn't eager to go back to the class of criminal that was currently pulling him across the roof.

And, then, because it wasn't enough to have to be rescued by John, the sirens that Sherlock had been half-tracking were joined by a bullhorn and the sound of a rattling fire escape.  "Get your hands up where we can see them, step away from the fire escape, put down any weapons!" Sally Donovan's voice was strong and firm as officers began to swarm up the fire escape.  Of course, it took a while to climb seven flights, so there was still time to turn the situation into one where Sally Donovan wouldn't be the one saving Sherlock from getting knifed by a run-of-the-mill thief. 

Said thief apparently had no regard for Sherlock's embarrassment, and promptly spend the next half a minute muttering while frozen in terror.  He had turned so he was neither facing the fire escape or John, but the edge of the roof perpendicular to the fire escape.  Great plan.

By the time the first officer climbed onto the roof, the burglar was muttering incomprehensibly.  By the time they had the criminal half surrounded (shouting at him to put the gun down, release Sherlock, etc.) the knife was shaking.  And (for God's sake) it was as Donovan and Lestrade crested the rooftop and began walking towards the burglar, waving badges and guns, that the man finally accepted his fate and threw down the knife, raising his hands. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, walked over to Lestrade and coolly said, "Took you long enough."

Obviously not coolly enough- Donovan (wearing her own deodorant, new earrings, new boyfriend, not Anderson) was smirking and obviously trying to contain whatever snarky remark was rearing its ugly head in her mind.

"Well we weren't all that worried until the librarian who phoned called us back and said there were a couple of jumpers too," Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Apparently a couple of morons chased the thieves out onto the fire escape."

"Just one moron, actually," John said, coming up beside Sherlock.

"Really," Donovan said, finally giving into her urges and smiling (fondly, teasingly, though it was directed at John so that was to be expected.  John was the likable one). "So what was your bright plan for saving the day if we hadn't arrived?"

John flushed and reached into his pocket.  He pulled out a hunk of concrete that must have come from the roof somewhere and dropped it back onto the concrete.

Lestrade laughed (good mood/not hung over, seeing someone?), "So you were gonna hit him with a rock?"

"I've got good aim," John supplied, giving a self-deprecating chuckle.  Sherlock knew that was just John being humble (why he bothered, Sherlock would never understand)- if John had wanted that rock to knock the thief unconscious, that's exactly what would have happened.

Watching the officers cuff the two thieves, Sherlock asked, "Why didn't you have your gun?"

"Because beaning someone in the head with a rock is different than shooting them in the head?" Donovan muttered, loud enough for them all to hear.  And immediately, Lestrade quit his grinning and John stiffened.

For whatever reason, John ignored that and said, "Because, we were here to get _books,_ Sherlock.  I wasn't under the assumption that you were going to latch onto some other people, deduce that they were thieves, and then chase them onto the roof!"

"We're going to need a statement at some point..." Lestrade said weakly, obviously realizing that this was going to go down a certain road that never ended well for anyone.

"You should always assume that something could happen, John!  Always assume the worst!"

"That's _ridiculous_ -"

"Anything could happen at any-"

"You're not even supposed to be taking any cases!" John finally shouted, steamrolling over anything Sherlock might have planned to say next. "Let alone be solving crimes minutes after they're committed by deducing that they've happened!" He took a deep, short breath and said again, quieter this time: "You're not even supposed to be taking any cases."

To have Donovan snidely drop hints was one thing.  For John to acknowledge all... this was a sign of how deeply in hot water Sherlock had sunk.  They hadn't talked about it at all yet, but from John looking at his shoes with gritted teeth was a sure sign that they would be having it out.  Soon.

The 'it' in question would be the incident where Sherlock shot Charles Augustus Magnussen in the head for threatening Mary, in the face of numerous guns trained at him, and in spite of Mycroft watching.  John watching.

_Enjoy getting involved, little brother._

"Well, we should probably get the statement out of the way so you boys can head home," Lestrade finally said.  The grin was long gone, replaced by the usual shadows under the eyes and gruff voice.  Mycroft managed to make sure none of the papers got wind of the incident- the released story was simply that Magnussen had died.  End of story. 

Of course, Mycroft had enlisted Molly Hooper's help, utilizing her skills as a pathologist and affection for Sherlock.  And then she had become worried and told Lestrade, and Lestrade had let enough slip in a moment of stress that Donovan figured it out.  Mycroft elected to use this accident as a way of ensuring that Sherlock didn't get into any trouble (anything interesting, anyways) by having Lestrade check in randomly.  When Sherlock had complained about this, Mycroft threatened to have Donovan act as a live-in guard (never mind the fact that they would probably throttle each other within a day, the mere mention of it made Sherlock clam up).

"We came to get some books, I noticed a trio coming up the elevator.  They weren't librarians and I know that the library keeps the valuable books in the lower levels, so it's authorized personnel only.  From there it only took a little bit of following and eavesdropping to realize that they had stolen one of those books.  Of course, they then realized they were being followed, panicked, and ran upstairs instead of out the door.  John and I chased them and one managed to slip away.  The other two went out the window onto the fire escape, we confronted them, the rest you can probably figure out yourself."

"You let one of them get away?" Lestrade said, brow already furrowing in anticipation of stress.

"He darted into the stacks," John offered.  "We decided to head after the other two."

"And the library's security guards?" Lestrade asked.

"They had just found out the theft by the time we were giving chase.  I assume one of the librarians called the police," Sherlock said. "Now, can we please go?"

"One more thing," Lestrade said, ignoring the sigh from Sherlock. "Where are your books?"

"...books?" Sherlock repeated.

"Yeah, I mean, you probably dropped them, but we can run and get them for you since you so helpfully did our job for us," Lestrade was watching Sherlock, half amused and half pitying.

"I had a few thrillers but...um... that's not really..." John trailed off, apparently realizing that this was more about proving a point than being kind.

"I hadn't found anything," Sherlock finally muttered. "Yet."

Lestrade just nodded. "Well, we'd better see what was stolen, find our third thief." Donovan was already moving off, and Lestrade didn't say goodbye before he followed.

Sherlock closed his eyes in a long blink.  He didn't want to look at John, see the thinly veiled anger.  Didn't want to look to where Lestrade was uncomfortably glancing back at him.  Didn't want to look at Donovan who was shooting him glares.  

Finally, John said, "We'd best get a cab."

 

Somehow, _somehow,_ they made it down the fire escape, onto the street, into the cab, and back out of it before getting into it.  When Sherlock got out as the cab pulled in front of 221B, he thought for a moment that John would simply close the door and drive off to Mary's (he was still staying there, judging by the smell of the shampoo in his hair).  Maybe he would be granted a reprieve. 

No such luck.  Instead, John got out, waved the taxi off, and walked into the flat. 

Mrs. Hudson was out (various aches and pains were sending her to the drug aisle in the shops) which was a stroke of luck.  No use having a massive row if your landlady was just going to come and look sad until you stopped. 

Sherlock trailed after John on the steps, hesitated at the door, balked at the idea of sitting in his chair and looking at John, who was standing by the fireplace and looking at him.

If he looked at his friend (did he really need to say _best_ friend if he really only had the one?  Besides, it seemed... inadequate), he could probably deduce how things were going with the other disaster in John's life (the one that was married to him, carrying his child, and apparently the assassin to end all assassins).  But, though it was incredibly hard, Sherlock tried to ignore that, tried to just let John have a go at him without Sherlock puzzling out the reasons behind certain words or trying to excuse them as John having a bad day. 

John was disappointed in him enough as it was.  A little humanity might help.

"I'm not sorry," Sherlock finally blurted, unable to take John's staring anymore. "I'm not sorry I shot Magnussen and I don't see why I should be."

"It's not like a load of people are upset he's dead," John said. "But that's neither here nor there."

"The world is a better place without him, isn't it?" Trying to cover up that petulant hope for affirmation, Sherlock proceeded to explain. "He might not have been the same kind of monster as Moriarty, but he was a monster nonetheless."

"Yeah, but who decides which monsters need to be put down?" John asked carefully.  Sherlock felt a flash of frustration- this wasn't him playing God.  It was for Mary, it was for John.  It was because Magnussen tortured those who were different and no one would have stopped him.  Ever.  Why was that so difficult to understand?  Lestrade was thick-headed enough and lawful enough to expect this from, but John?

"You shot the cabbie," Sherlock retorted.

It was the wrong thing to say, and Sherlock immediately realized this.  Maybe he and John could have bickered and danced around their feelings and left it at that, as was the norm.  But now John's back was straight, his teeth were clenched, and he pointed a finger at Sherlock as he walked away from the mantel, back towards the doorway where Sherlock was standing.  "That's different.  That was in response to an immediate threat- he was going to _kill you_ -"

"I had the right pill!" Sherlock defended, unable to resist the sore point.

"You might be clever as hell, but you're not perfect, Sherlock," John snapped back. "And you can't compare me shooting a murderer about to take another victim to Magnussen-"

"You don't have to be dead to be a victim!"

"Oh, that's rich coming from you.  You think everyone deserves what they got, mostly because everyone else is an idiot and you're bloody Sherlock Holmes so you know what's best-"

"I was protecting Mary and you and probably hundreds of others!"

That stopped John short for a moment, because that was the real issue.  Shooting Magnussen was something they might have been able to get past.  But it was the _why_ that was so hard to swallow.  John didn't want to bear that weight and Sherlock didn't want to force it on him.  Sherlock had been arrogant, put them in a situation with no way to win, and now they were dealing with the fallout. 

"Look, Sherlock," John said, sounding more tired than ever. "I could argue morals with you all day.  Magnussen wasn't a very nice man," here, Sherlock resisted the urge to smile at the term that had become part of their banter, "But...still.  Sherlock, they could lock you up, send you away...hell, they _would_ have if it weren't for..."

And there was the second ugly divider between them.  The only reason Sherlock wasn't in Eastern Europe (a place he never wanted to visit again) right now was because Moriarty had possibly returned.  Even if the consulting criminal was still dead (Sherlock would take up religion and pray to this end if it weren't so boring and sentimental) there was someone trying to take his place.  And to balance out a consulting criminal, one had to have a consulting detective, and there was no way Mycroft would ever fill that role.

John seemed to have run out of words.  Sherlock was just too exhausted from trying to defend himself- to John, to Lestrade- to try and force them from him.

After an eternity (or one minute and five seconds) John said, "Sherlock... Mycroft might get you off.  Maybe Magnussen was blackmailing everyone and they all decide to throw you a big party instead of throwing you in jail.  So please don't do anything to screw that up."

"What?" Sherlock was honestly puzzled.  Yes, he did rub people the wrong way, but he was hardly going to hunt down whoever was in charge of his fate and make them hate him.  And Mycroft... well, if Sherlock wanted Mycroft dead he could continue to bide his time. 

A deep, practicing-explaining-simple-things-for-when-my-child-hits-this-phase sigh. "Sherlock, you lucked out today.  I mean, really lucked out.  You got to solve a crime as it was happening and be held at knife-point.  I don't know how long the... decision will take, but please just... no cases.  Okay?  It's almost the only thing they've asked, so please do this so you don't get yourself sent to Iran or Ukraine or North Korea..."

Sherlock chuckled at that and John flashed a quick grin before it slipped away and he looked at his shoes. "I should get back, you know...Mary..."

"Yes.  Of course."

Sherlock moved out of the doorway and John headed past him, then paused before turning, so the two were mirroring the way they had been standing moments before. "And you shouldn't always think the worst of people."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.  John so rarely displayed his opinions, emotions, feelings...anything personal really. 

"Because then people will let you down," John met Sherlock's gaze for a moment, to make sure he got the message.  If you always thought the worst of people, there was every bit a chance that they'd go and prove you right. Better to be disappointed that validated. And then John was gone, down the stairs, shouting, "I'll be by tomorrow after work!" 

Sherlock was left standing by the empty doorway of an empty flat, trying desperately to think of an answer for John's statement that wasn't a simple: _Wrong._

 


	2. Suitcases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three different POVs, wowee. Enjoy! :)

He didn't use suitcases.  He preferred a duffel bag.

* * *

Luggage was just so _fun_.  Pockets and wheels and crisp-sounding zippers.  The wheels of his Louis Vuitton suitcase clacked as the wheels rolled along the cool airport tiles.   Travelers around him talked on sleek phones and strode down the shiny walkways and ignored the fact that they were all simply disposable, walking _targets._

Come to think of it, airports in general were fun.  All the useless security, the drudgery of checkpoints and scanners... pathetic.  A lovely challenge, albeit an ineffective one.  He passed yet _another_ security guard, this one drinking coffee and blinking at the crowd with the glazed look of someone who was bored out of his mind.

A familiar look.

Smiling to himself, the man pulled out his phone, unlocking it and clicking on the message icon.  Scrolling through his contacts, he stopped at _Constant Lee Bollixed_.  The name changed every few weeks, swung with his mood and taunted him whenever he looked at it.  _Just one little message..._

But he hadn't gotten to the top by giving into every whim ( _most_ whims, not all) and he wasn't going to spoil everything now so that he could get a thrill from taunting Sherlock.

He scrolled further down and hit another contact, typing out a quick message as he got closer to the door.  _Sound the horns and set sail. -JM_

An answer chirp came back a moment later and he smiled.  The automatic doors whooshed open and James Moriarty slipped on his sunglasses and smiled as he breathed in London air for the first time in three years. 

* * *

John kept a suitcase packed.  Just in case, he told himself.  Just in case Sherlock needed him?  Relapsed again?  Just in case Mary...

He'd dealt with so many hard things, but one of the hardest was having to reconcile the idea of Mary Morstan, the beautiful, funny, dangerously brilliant woman he fell in love with, and A.G.R.A, the mysterious, calculating, dangerously _danger_ _ous_ assassin she had once been.  How could he be in love with one part of Mary and be prepared to flee in the night from another part of her?  How could he be in love with someone who killed people for money?  John wanted so badly to forgive her, all of her- but he also wished that she could just... _what?_   Not been everything he wanted?  Not revealed herself?  

It was just too much to think about, so he pushed it to the back of his head.

Honestly, he was too busy worrying about Sherlock to worry about Mary right now.

Walking up to the house as the cab whizzed away, he rubbed a hand over his face.  God... today had been a tad bit not good.  Sherlock had been practically going insane since he was cooped up in the flat and John had wanted to have a nice day out, get some books that might just keep his best friend from burning down London in some sort of crazed experiment.  Instead, Sherlock had somehow found a trio of thieves, chased them through the library, almost gotten killed, and to top it all off, their only real conversation had been when John was shouting at Sherlock about why he didn't want to have a gun around his best friend at the moment. 

The front door opened before he could put the key in the lock and Mary was looking at him with wide eyes, "Back so soon?"

"How did you...?" John asked as he stepped inside, Mary closing the door and following.  He spotted the cup of tea and the paperback by the window and realized that she'd been waiting for him, watching.  _She didn't think I'd come back._ "Um...yeah, I mean.  It was kind of a... uneventful day, y'know."

"Really," Mary quirked a grin. "John, you're worse a liar than Sherlock is, and I _always_ know when _he's_ fibbing."

John sighed. "Yeah, Sherlock caught two thieves and almost died, it was great."

Raising her eyebrows, Mary gave him a look. "Weren't you at the library?"

Shrugging off his coat and hanging it before sinking onto the couch. "Yup."

Mary got a faraway look in her eyes. "What would they steal from the library?  Who would want something like that?"  Honestly, it was no wonder she and Sherlock got along so well.  John felt like he needed a clone to keep up with the pair of them.  

Once Mary realized that John was deliberating not engaging in conversation, she sat down, shooting him small glances.  "So... he's okay then, right?"

"No, I left him bleeding out with Molly at Bart's," John snapped, then winced. "Sorry.  Sorry." He inhaled and then forced a smile, "How's Annabelle doing?"

Mary gave a small smile, patting her rotund belly fondly, "Healthy and kicking.  Quite a bit, actually." She met John's gaze, still smiling, "I like Annabelle."

"Really?"

Nodding, Mary suddenly laughed, "I forgot- Sherlock has a name picked out too."

_Sherlock is a girl's name too._

John swallowed, suddenly hesitant, "What is it?"

"Hamish."

John snorted, "The poor kid.  I _told_ the bloody git it was a girl."

Mary rolled her eyes, "You know Sherlock."

The tarmac.  Shaking hands.  The impossible sadness in his best friend's eyes. 

_Sherlock is a girl's name too._

John realized he hadn't spoken and Mary was looking at him with concern. "Yeah, um, I'm going to visit him again tomorrow.  So... yeah."

A look of relief passed over her face.  She was still half expecting him to just leave, to just stop talking and walk out.  John knew that and it made him feel rotten, because he wasn't entirely sure it was an unwarranted thought. "Well, try not to get yourselves killed, would you?  Clarissa would like a dad, you know."

"Yeah," John smiled, for real. "I know." He stood and stretched, "I'm gonna go shower, then do you want to get a movie or something?"

Mary nodded, reaching for her book and picking up where she left off.  John looked at her once more before he headed to the bathroom.  She was everything he ever wanted.  And then... she wasn't.

Or was she?

_It's what you like._

Chased by worries about his best friend and his wife, John walked quickly to the bathroom, trying not to think of the suitcase that could have been packed because of his fears about either (both?) of them.


	3. In Any Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been reading and especially to chemistryofcrime for leaving a lovely comment! Hope you enjoy the next chapter and I'm so sorry it took so long.

Rooftop chases aside, Sherlock had little to occupy him during the innumerable hours his brain kept him awake, the insistent but ridiculous thought that if he fell asleep, he might miss a case that had somehow escaped Mycroft's nearly impenetrable defenses. Of course, Mycroft tried to justify the babysitting by saying he was trying to protect Sherlock (honestly, that excuse had started to wear thin about 20 years ago).

So Sherlock occupied himself with three equally droll projects (which were the only things he had going for him at the moment)- trying to annoy Mycroft to the point where he backed off a little (growing more successful, as he had recently hacked a middle-level security site to display nothing but a picture of Mycroft as a child, in nothing but swim trunks), rummaging through some old case files he had acquired (stolen via a pick-pocketed badge from Lestrade- honestly, it was like they _wanted_ him to get in), and going through his mind palace and deleting information that was no longer relevant or needed to be updated (John called it his 'spring cleaning'.  Even though it wasn't spring.)

All three were mind-numbingly simple and nearly void of entertainment (except the Mycroft bit- even though it had lasted a mere two and a half minutes, it had been _wonderful_ ).  The only real advantage was that it kept his mind vaguely occupied for most of the achingly slow days.  Violin playing and trying to pry a nattering Mrs. Hudson out of the flat (he had honestly been trying not to snap at her so much, he blamed John and that fountain-of-fairly-useless-emotions he called a wedding for the sudden dip into sentimentality) made up for the rest of his day.

Honestly, the only thing that kept him going was the fact that John would be here soon (and that he had been awake for four days, so why take a break now?).  Even though they couldn't do anything _remotely_ interesting (or leave the flat without a platoon of agents following) Sherlock was simply looking forward to John being here, to Mrs. Hudson smiling and both chairs being filled, to two cups of tea instead of one, and the strange sense of _before_ -ness that made him get a (good) strange feeling in his stomach.

Sherlock was standing at the window with his violin.  He held it stiffly as he sawed across the strings in a dissonant melody that rose and fell, like the choppy waves of an angry sea or the way you felt after shooting a man in the head and seeing the look on your best friend's face.

He heard the door downstairs shut and Mrs. Hudson gave delighted cry.  John's laughter trickled up the steps and Sherlock began to play softer (John possessed the annoying ability to sense exactly why Sherlock was playing a certain piece- anything the sounded vaguely off would result in their precious time squandered on Sherlock's _feelings_ ).  After a minute, Sherlock heard John's boots on the stairs as he made his way to the flat. 

Finishing the improvisation with a single, bittersweet note that he broke off abruptly as John came through the open door.  "John," he looked over.

"Can't say I liked that one much," John said as he stepped into the flat, eying it as if looking for changes.  His eyes landed on Sherlock, "You alright?"

Honestly, it had been _years_ since John had come home from Afghanistan, when would that incredible soldiers' hearing go away?  It wasn't like Sherlock's violin sounded _anything_ like the whistle of missiles or the click of a trigger (though John had compared it to a number of other things, among them cats dying, the wail of a banshee, a tortured pterodactyl, and, once, after having one too many pints, and when Sherlock was in a particularly good mood, the sound of the moon rising). 

Sherlock turned to deposit his violin in its case before glancing back at John.  Though his friend had often berated him for making unwanted deductions (and on one occasion, thrown a shoe at Sherlock's head), Sherlock couldn't help himself.  John was wearing a jumper that was the precise color of a brain after death (or oatmeal, as Mrs. Hudson called it), and Sherlock could tell from the rumples that John was (still) biking to work, leaving his street clothes in his locker.  Things with Mary had been alright last night, John was loose and stood straight, but he could still see the strain. 

"Sherlock?"

Blinking, Sherlock struggled to remember the question (what was going on with the lapses in memory lately?  First on at the library he'd been distracted and now this... what _was_ it?).  "I had breakfast," he finally said (lied) after deciding John had noted the lack of dishes during his quick study of the flat and was now asking whether or not he'd eaten that day.

John gave a small chuckle and he settled in his chair, "Very good Sherlock, but that's not what I asked."

It took a moment for that to register, because Sherlock was just enjoying the feeling of John being here, even if he had to leave again soon.  At least now there was a chance for that all-encompassing boredom to be alleviated.  "Hm?"

Half-amused and half-irritated, John nodded towards the violin. "What did the poor thing do to you anyways?  Mrs. Hudson thought you had some kind of wild animal up here."

"Oh," Sherlock looked over at the instrument and blinked. "Fine, just... bored." The pregnant pause hung between them.  Sherlock was never shy about expressing his hatred when it came to wretched inactivity, and John knew that as well as Sherlock did. 

John opened his mouth then closed it again.  He looked at his hands, then back up at Sherlock. "It's okay, you know.  To be worried."

"Worried?" Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why would I be worried?"

John looked at him for a long moment and then snorted (Sherlock couldn't tell if he was amused or irritated), "I don't know Sherlock." His eyes roved the flat once more, "So besides torturing your violin, what have you been doing?"

With one question, John economically addressed and attempted to rule out a number of issues.  Depending on Sherlock's answer, John would be able to ascertain whether anything interesting (cases, drugs, setting things on fire) had taken place.  It was incredibly annoying to have someone actually be able to predict him in some sense. "Reading," he finally said, deciding on a half-truth.  Though old cold case files technically were texts that he read, they hardly counted as anything worth mentioning.

Standing, John walked over to the desk and glanced at the files Sherlock had left there haphazardly (he hadn't cleaned up, another lapse in judgment.  It seemed like there were more and more of those lately.  Any other day, he would know exactly all the things he needed to stash or hide before John arrived).  Sherlock lurched towards the desk, with the intention of sweeping the papers into a drawer, only to slip on his dressing gown (which he was still wearing, never mind that it was nearly seven).  The end result was Sherlock sprawling towards the floor and John (who had darted to catch him) tripping over him, slipping on the silk of Sherlock's robe.  

They lay on the floor for a moment.  Sherlock had screwed his eyes shut, resisting the urge to pick himself up and go lock himself in his room for a good while.  _Some consulting detective_ , he thought.  _Can't even hide files from_ John _without messing it up._

Then he realized John had started laughing (was he laughing at Sherlock?). "We," John choked out, "Are a mess."

Sherlock smiled and then he was laughing too.  The two of them just lying on the floor of the flat, laughing like children and not grown men.  Finally, John heaved himself to his feet and offered Sherlock his hand.  After a moment, Sherlock reached up and clasped John's hand in his own, warm and firm. 

When both of them were standing again, John grinned up at Sherlock, "Tea?"

 

Both of them now equipped with mugs, Sherlock and John sat in their chairs, bickering in the usual, teasing way.

"Really, though, Sherlock," John said, a faint smile still gracing his face. "How long have you had those files."

"Ages."

A snort. "You stole them this week, I bet."

"You know my methods, John."

Rolling his eyes, John said, "Okay, fine, but don't the record-keepers realize you're not _actually_ part of Scotland Yard?"

Sherlock shifted his feet, avoiding eye contact.

"Oh for God's sake..." John stood and poked Sherlock with a socked foot. "Where is it?  Give it to me."

Muttering about how people should take better care of their things if they expected to keep them, Sherlock allowed John to manhandle him out of his chair and led him to the desk.  Opening the top drawer, Sherlock shifted through a mess of badges (all from Lestrade) and IDs (seven from Lestrade, two from a lab tech, and one from Sally Donovan, though Sherlock did not know when, how, or why he had acquired that one).  Finally, he came up with the ID he had pick-pocketed from Lestrade at the library and used that afternoon to get into the records at the Yard.  Luckily a picture wasn't on it, and the paper records weren't watched very carefully with most everything being electronic now.

"Happy?" Sherlock offered the card to John who rolled his eyes again and took it. 

"I'll give it back to him some time," Jon muttered as he pocketed it.  Looking up at Sherlock, he quirked a grin, "They must have to replace IDs every week because of you."

"Mmm.  How was work?"

John raised an eyebrow, "Why?  Because I told you before, I'm not the kind of doctor with access to body parts."

"I know _that_ ," Sherlock snapped, a little miffed that John thought him taking an interest in his best friend's life was suspicious (maybe it was, but what did Sherlock care?).

"Nothing much.  Thoroughly boring; nothing more interesting than a persistent cold."

It was at this point that Sherlock began very fervently wishing that John was a doctor who could supply him with body parts (Molly had been warned off by Mycroft, something she almost tearfully confessed to Sherlock a few days prior).  "D'you want to see an embarrassing picture of Mycroft?"

"Oh God yes."

Sherlock booted up his laptop to find the old photo.  Just then, a tinny, generic ringtone piped from John's pocket.  Without looking at the caller ID, he clicked a button and answered, "Yeah?"

Half-listening as he dug through his hefty 'Mycroft' file, Sherlock heard John say hello to Lestrade and ask about the weather/sports/his day/some small talk nonsense that Sherlock tuned out.  It wasn't until John's tone and posture shifted that he began to eavesdrop again.

"I dunno.  Yeah, I mean, I'm sure he would be fine with that.  But what if-" Lestrade interrupted and John rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "No, I trust you guys, just... it's not like you can be on watch 24/7." A lengthy pause and John finally spoke again. "Yeah.  Okay.  We'll be there in fifteen.  Bye."

Sherlock hadn't moved the mouse in half a minute, and his heart was pounding wildly as he struggled not to get too excited (it sounded like a case could be a case a case a case).  "What did Gerald want?"

" _Greg_ called to say that..." John bit his lip and wavered before finally plowing on. "There's been a murder and he wants you to come look.  Just today, just five minutes, nothing else.  Sherlock, you have to promise me..."

But Sherlock was gone, gone to a place where serial killers and murderers ran rampant and he had puzzles within puzzles within locked rooms to solve and it wasn't a case but it was a something and right now he needed that.  God, his brain had atrophied, but this was a chance to at least clear away the cobwebs.  He was _dying_ and Lestrade had just thrown him a rope. 

"Sherlock are you even-"

Dreamily, Sherlock stood, got his coat and shrugged it on.  He wrapped his scarf around his neck and looked at John who was watching with the expression of a convict who had just gotten his sentence.  "Are you coming?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I'm-" John took a steadying breath. "Sherlock, in all seriousness, please, please be smart."

"I'm always smart!" Sherlock glared at John, indignant.

"I _mean_ your brother might let one night, five minutes slide.  But if you think you can get away with any more, you could be in godforsaken Ukraine by morning.  Please just tell me you'll be... careful."

"John, I will do my best, but this is Christmas!  This is a dying man being given a reprieve!  Honestly, one more hour in this place and my brain would turn to soup."

Fighting a smirk, John nodded and said, "Yes, but in any case, it would really just make me feel better..."

"Alright, fine," Sherlock cried, already wrenching the door of the flat open. "I'll be careful!" He thundered down the stairs and John listened to his receding voice, "Really John, you and your sentiments..."

Left in the flat, John exhaled a puff of air and looked up at the ceiling. "Four days," he grumbled. "It's been four bloody days and he's comparing himself to a dying man."

But, as always in these impossible situations, John grabbed his coat and chased after Sherlock.


End file.
